The industrial heart of Sector 4 throbbed with a rhythmic metallic heartbeat. Giant pistons slammed into the earth with the weight of falling mountains. The air was a thick choking soup of superheated grease and spent mana coal. High above, the massive brass gears of the Foundry District turned with a slow grinding inevitability, casting jagged shadows across the circular gear platform where the two combatants stood.
Magnus stood in the center of the arena. He was a mountain of a youth whose Academy uniform seemed one deep breath away from shredding at the shoulders. His skin was the color of slate. His hands were encased in heavy brass gauntlets that hummed with a low brown light. He did not look like a student of Zenith. He looked like a siege engine that had been given human form.
